


Lay Me Down

by seperis



Series: Season Three Duo [2]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-10
Updated: 2003-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-03 18:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <b>Slowly Turning</b>.  Somewhere you can close your eyes.  Don't be afraid at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lay Me Down

**Author's Note:**

> For gem225 again.

He'll remember this when he forgets running down endless wet streets, because his own thoughts were too close and walking wasn't fast enough. Skidding on wet asphalt and against a dumpster when he short-cuts between leftover tenements from the sixties, urban decline, social studies class, flashes of Mr. Harper and boring texts about the fall of the inner city. Nearly falling when he recognized Tremont Street and that's not where he'd meant to go.

He'll forget all the stupid, useless thoughts that he had clung to, crowding space in his head, competition for the top spot, like how Mr. Harper's glasses had perched on his nose as he read in this dry, stuffy voice, like a book from the stacks, like he'd breathed nothing but paper dust and library-quiet all his life.

He'll forget how he had skidded on the sidewalk, grasping for rough brick that almost stole skin before he pulled away.

He'll forget the ache in his hand, the soles of his feet rubbed raw by wet, stretched cotton against bare skin, the burn in his chest from running too fast. He'll forget the people he passed and the noise of cars honking and the crosswalks he ignored.

But.

He'll remember _this_, every time he sees a street soaked in rain, a night that's loud and dark and bright like the storm overhead, like the noise in his head.

He'll remember being scared and angry and tired as hell, but most of all, he'll remember looking up and seeing that the window was closed.

* * *

"You're fucking soaked."

Justin doesn't move, hearing the door of the loft shut behind him. Brian's stripped to jeans and nothing else, proof of something, though God knows what. And Justin's tired, so fucking _exhausted_, and he's cold. Cold enough for fine tremors to shake the sleeves of his coat, the hands stuffed in his pockets. He doesn't think he'll ever be warm again.

From here, he can see the boxes of take out, that the puddle's gone, and that the blinds are closed. In here, there's nothing but the slow, steady beat of something alt rock on the stereo he brought over, Brian's slow breathing, and the pound of his own heart, rabbit-fast and filling his throat.

"I--" He stops the words--God, even his teeth are chattering. "Where--" Rough fingers on his coat make him close his eyes. Brian's like the city outside, motion and light and heat and energy, charge and current with every impersonal touch. The coat's discarded somewhere, scarf coiled like a snake at their feet. "How'd it go?"

"What the fuck were you doing, fucking in puddles?" Justin jumps at fingers like matches, burning into every inch of skin they brush, working the shirt up in sharp movements. Hands hot even through his soaked sleeves when Brian pulls his arms over his head and the shirt follows, hitting the floor with a wet sound that like feet stumbling through puddles.

"Just--taking a walk." Even to himself, he sounds weak and too-young, wet skin prickling with the brush cool air, goosebumps rising. He forgets to pull down his arms until Brian's palms smooth slowly over his skin, grasping his wrists, easing them down between them. "Jesus, it's cold."

"And aren't you observant?" The sarcasm is automatic, like Brian's mind is miles and miles away from his mouth, and Justin closes his eyes again. Wet jeans chafe against his waist and inner thighs, and he wants them off, but he wants to be still even more. Like somehow every piece of clothing that's removed brings him closer to something he can't deal with.

And he can't, not this time. He'd thought he was ready for anything, but he's not any different than seventeen right now, and Brian's just as capable of breaking him without even trying. The fragile, annoying kid who never stopped living inside his skin clawing too close to the surface. Everything changes but this one thing--Justin's never learned how to live without Brian. Right now, he can't even pretend to try.

Brian's close enough to breathe in--clean skin, that kind of damp that comes from a shower and a quick towel-dry, warmth brushing Justin's knuckles with every breath. Tangy. Familiar as his own name--maybe more. He's awakened with the scent-memory wrapped around him, muttering Brian's name on an indrawn breath, like air, so hard it hurts. "I--where were you?"

Brian doesn't answer, drawing Justin's wrists down and apart, a casual step closer, and Justin shivers as Brian locks his hands against the small of his back. Bending Justin back in a slow arch of his spine that brings his chin up, but he won't open his eyes. Not yet.

Warm breath on his forehead. "Around." Skin on skin, touching just _here_ and _here_, at the small of his back, lips skimming his temple, this impossibly thin layer of charged air between their bodies. Smoky beat of music and the low rhythm of thunder that he can feel in the balls of his feet, the tendons in his thighs, vibrating in the soft skin behind his ears.

This heaviness that has nothing to do with water in the air and everything with what Brian does to him as effortlessly as breathing. The way he makes sex the one thing, the only thing, everything.

"I--" Was looking for you. Wanted to know. Need to know now. Justin just sways, eyes closed, head tilted back. Lets Brian control his body because he does that best. Nerves alight enough to feel everything that isn't touching him but could be. Another skimming kiss that's a tease, a charge that doesn't release. Tight wet underwear clings to his cock, aching and wanting and pleading the way he won't, because he can't form the right words to ask the right way.

Any way, really. He does his best talking with his body, too.

Brian's performing, like they're at Babylon, like they're being watched, teasing with almost-touch and almost-taste, almost-enough but never quite. Fingers entwined against his back, and Brian's the entire world all focused into this one moment, pure and heady and scary as hell.

Brian's performing, teasing, but it's just for him. For a dark, empty loft and a rainy night and Justin Taylor alone.

Brian frees one hand, and Justin arches at the brush of fingers through his hair. Pushed wet and slow from his forehead, clinging to his skin, fingers sliding slow and easy like Brian's stroking a cat. Fingertips on the back of his neck, pressing in with sharp, manicured nails that hurt just enough. Patterns drawn like modern art between his shoulder blades, something he'd study in a gallery for hours. Days. Years.

Brian, touching just _here_ and _here_, at the small of his back, on the back of his neck, where the skin is wet and sensitive and soft and wired straight to his cock. Needing pressure that Brian won't give. Brian slips back so that soft cushion of air gives Justin warmth and nothing else.

"Brian--"

"Shh." It's only a brush against his lips, but Justin's moving into it, pulled back before contact. Body-memory of hundreds of nights that they danced until near collapse, fucking on the charge they worked up between them, breathless and desperate and stretched to snapping. Fucking on e until Justin thought he'd never be able to come down, felt skinned and raw after, living nerve endings and restless satiation. All this wrapped up in this one second and this one man, this man who makes him feel something, anything, everything, and no one else can do that, would even know how.

Fingers twined in his pull him in, and Justin sucks in a breath at the slow, deliberate grind, cock to cock through denim, too fast to do anything but _feel_ before he's pulled back, just the echoes of sensation like sandpaper. Brian's lips brushing down the column of his throat, following the vein, marking time in measured licks, Jesus, Justin could go crazy like this.

Dancing's always been sex, foreplay, jerking off in public, and Justin's danced with hundreds but they've all been Brian, even when they aren't, like every fuck and every trick and every night alone. I performed for a thousand people at Babylon, all eyes were watching me, they all _wanted_, and I knew it and I liked it, but it didn't matter, I didn't care, I've never cared. I only danced for you.

Justin just wants to touch--he's careful, letting one hand slide out of Brian's, a brush against the hand in his hair, following the long, hard line of Brian's arm, resting fingertips on warm skin, skimming, and it's almost overload. He wants all of it, every inch, use his fingers and his lips and his tongue to touch and taste and lose himself. Wallow in what this makes him feel, how good it is, how nothing else matters, not pride or respect, love or anger, even self.

Sublimated to this, that makes him feel like his life's all been spent sleeping.

A shock to be pulled in again, instinctive clutch at a bare shoulder, so _warm_, pressed together from knee to chest.

Justin opens his eyes.

He remembers how lightning played in the puddle on the floor, how it danced outside, brighter than a sky full of stars on the clearest night, how the rain enclosed him and drowned him, soaking into his coat and his hair, his shirt and his skin.

He remembers a ten year old who loved storms and how he'd sit in the window of his room and try to capture the feeling of it. Restless and endless and unpredictable.

He remembers that when dark eyes hold his, glassy and clear as water, brilliant as the night outside, remembers when that mouth touches his, soft as the rain, remembers when he stops breathing, because he doesn't need to.

Wet, sticky jeans clinging when they're unbuttoned, Brian's hand inside, hot against thin cotton, impossible not to buck into it, moan into Brian's mouth. Run his fingers through barely damp hair and hold on. Bent backward like he's water, kissed like he's precious, touched like he's needed. _Brian_.

Working him slow and deliberate, and he's not cold, can't ever have been, not when sweat's slicking his skin, tongue coming away salty from Brian's lips. Insane urge to talk, fill up the space with words, about how he can't give him up again, how he won't, how it doesn't matter what Brian wants, he'll do it, he'll _be_ it, he'll be anyone and anything and everything if Brian never stops touching him, never stops kissing him, never stops looking at him like this.

Both hands now, sliding up Brian's back, flawless silky skin, the rough waist of dry jeans that get in his way when he comes back down, working them open desperately, pushing them down. Dropping on his knees before Brian can stop him, painful pull of that hand from his cock like withdrawal, but it's perfect like this, jerking denim lower, working them down long thighs, fingers trailing behind because it's impossible to think of not touching everything he can. No underwear to get in the way, a sidestep, and Justin raises up on both knees and swallows Brian's cock.

God, he live for this, for the sudden stretch, the hands in his hair, the pulse in his mouth, salty-sweet head on his tongue pushing down his throat. He's good at it, loves what he does, loves what he can do to men with something so simple, so natural, loves it because it's Brian who taught him how to.

So easy, so natural, pull back and lick, circle the head and catch all that taste, hold it on his tongue. Lick like he creates art, Brian's thighs tensing under his hands, he _knows_ what it takes to make Brian Kinney come hard enough to break, leave scratches on Justin's skin that he'll touch with curious fingers after. Smooth, easy swallow, back and forth, reaching up between his legs and cupping his balls--so close. Harder. Faster. Dizzy because he's not breathing, but who the hell cares about air when there's this?

"Justin." Like it's the only word in the universe that makes any sense at all. Thumbs stroking the line of his cheek, pushing against the hollow, then a grip like steel, pulling him back, off, _no_, and Justin fights it, but he's rolled on his back, his jeans somehow a pile of wet denim on the floor beside him.

Kissed hard, cut of teeth across his tongue, sucking his lower lip hard enough to bruise it, and then, God, inside, empty mouth full again, and Justin twists his fingers in silky hair and holds on. Opens his legs and _yes_, Brian grinding against him, hot and hard and slick against his stomach, against his cock.

The press of fingers against his ass, and he's a whore for this, knows it and doesn't even care, arching into the rough touch, biting with the push inside, dirty-hard stretch, and Jesus, it's almost the best part, the way Brian opens him up so effortlessly. Pressing down, trying to get more, sucking Brian's tongue into his mouth, and forget thinking, forget breathing, forget everything that isn't what Brian's doing to him, hitting that perfect rhythm and that perfect spot and driving him insane and it's so fucking _good_ it scares him.

"Fuck me." Both hands in Brian's hair, jerking his head back, and Justin loves that look, because no one else will ever see it. Glazed, blissed out, riding that sharp edge of uneasy surprise buried beneath, that look that was there the first time and the last time and this time, too, because no one ever made Brian want when he doesn't want to. Just him. Made Brian want and take and never know how to stop, even when he wants to. All there now, and other things that Justin thinks he should know but Brian's pushing his legs up, oval shaped bruises from too-tight fingers blossoming on his thighs, and the first push inside is rough and too-fast and hurts and so good Justin stops caring.

He knows.

He can read it in the ruthless pace, fast and hard and almost cruel, the fingers that twist in his hair and the teeth in his throat. The rough hand on his cock that's like sandpaper and silk and the rush of sensation that starts everywhere and nowhere, burning on every nerve. He wants to hold back, even if it kills him, stretch it out, make it last, feel this for days after, every time he sits down or takes a breath or looks at Brian across the room.

He'll remember this.

He'll remember tomorrow when he's at the diner and catches Brian's eyes across the room. Remember when he's pushed into the bathroom wall and Brian licks the bruises on his throat. Remember with every smile and every glance and every inadvertent touch.

He'll remember coming hard enough to see stars on a rainy night and a rush like thunder that wipes out thought. Remember the slick, sweaty body in his arms, panting, blissed out, utterly pliant. Remember the fingers entwined in his own over his head and remember the rough sound of his own voice.

"You're not leaving me."

He'll remember smiling and laughing and shaking his head, but most of all, he'll remember how Brian smiled.

"No."


End file.
